Clara was with her grandfather. Beau, I’d thought, was at work.
Obviously not, since he was standing in front of the table, staring down at me, arms crossed.
I quickly crumpled the paper. The last thing I needed was for Beau to see it. He’d think I was irresponsible, just another person in this country with a spending problem. Because there was no way I’d tell him about my estranged husband and his emotional abuse. I’d rather let him believe I was careless and riddled with debt.
If I had my way, he wasn’t going to knowanything.Not that there was much that would lower his estimation of me.
“I thought you were at work,” I said, mouth dry.
“I came home. Left some files here.” His words were terse, his eyes on the crumpled paper I was now leaning on.
Not obvious at all.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.” I was a shitty liar.
“Not nothing if it looked like you were about to fall apart just looking at it.” His brows were furrowed, onyx pupils fixed on me. He looked pissed off. Not unusual when he was in my presence.
He’d been there for longer than I expected. And I’d been so deep in my pity party, I hadn’t even heard him enter.
Not only that, but he was watching me intently enough to see my distress. However, it wasn’t hard to miss, since I wasn’thiding it like I usually did. I thought I could be alone in my misery, to wallow, just for a little while.
I didn’t answer him. I worried that if I spoke, I’d burst into tears, blurt the whole story to him. Like he would save me.
Beau, the hero.
What a joke. I’d long learned no one was coming to save me from my own life. That wasmyjob. I wasn’t very good at it.
“Tell me what’s going on,” he demanded harshly. Not the voice of a man wanting to save a woman, but the voice of a man annoyed to have to even be confronted with anything difficult from the woman he barely tolerated.
I gnashed my molars together against the aggressive tone, the expression, the energy he tended to give off whenever it was just us. The energy that had me on edge, shrinking into myself, tensing.
I wasn’t afraid that he’d hurt me in any way. Physically, at least. Emotionally, he’d hurt me plenty so far.
But still, I hadn’t been able to relinquish my little kernel of want. For him.
Having sexual fantasies about my asshole boss was borderline unhinged, but I couldn’t stop myself. And I hated that. That my body was, apparently, conditioned to want things that were bad for me.
Anger, deep and bitter, poisoned my veins. Anger at Waylon for damaging me so thoroughly, anger at myself for letting him, and now at Beau for doing it in an entirely new way.
I pushed out of my chair, taking the crumpled sheet of paper with me.
I forced myself to look him in the eye, despite how complicated, infuriating, and arousing the action was.
“Nothing is going on,” I repeated.
“You’re lying,” he accused. Rightly.
I shook my head. “Nothing is going on withClara. Or me in a way that will interfere with my job of taking care of her. That’s all that matters.” There. Not a lie. “What do you care anyway? You don’t even like me,” I added, which was meant to be combative, strong, but it just came out sounding juvenile.
Beau didn’t answer straightaway, his expression flattening, hands flexing at his sides.
“I do like you, Hannah,” he said quietly. “And that’s the fuckin’ problem.”
Then he stomped off.
seven
